


Satisfaction

by kmo



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Play, Bottom Hannibal, F/M, Medical Kink, Sex Toys, Slow Burn, femdom!Bedelia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-04-21
Packaged: 2018-03-06 21:09:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3148628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kmo/pseuds/kmo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pretending to be married has not been very satisfying for Bedelia. Hannibal seeks to change that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, fair warning, there is not any smut in this chapter, but sexytimes are on the way, I promise. Domme!Bedelia would want you (and Hannibal) to be patient. 
> 
> Edit: I stand corrected. There is food porn and eye-fucking, because this is _Hannibal_ after all and that's how we roll.

Hannibal flicks the rain from his black umbrella as he crosses the threshold of the hotel lobby. He does not need his watch to tell him he is running late. They had dinner reservations for seven, and it was now past seven-thirty. Bedelia had sent him a message to let him know she would be waiting for him at the bar.

Swiftly, but gracefully, he winds his way through the crowded lobby to the opulent bar, all walnut paneling and gilt mirrors. He spies Bedelia seated, sipping at what is likely her second glass of red. He is about to wave and alert her to his presence when he notices her in conversation with a young and relatively handsome man. Bedelia’s companion has thick dark hair and olive skin, and is immaculately tailored in a suit of ivory superfine. The man’s body language signals he is anything less than disinterested in Bedelia. And from the way Bedelia’s body leans forward, and the easy smile on her face, it would seem it is an interest she shares. Most intriguing.

As he creeps closer, Hannibal picks up snippets of their conversation.

“You speak English very well, Maximo,” Bedelia says, her tone polite, but still warm, the honeyed voice he remembered from so many therapy sessions.

“Ah, Signora Fell, I think I am lucky I had an ugly English teacher in school.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because if she were as beautiful as you, I would have been too… _como si dice_? Too _distracted_ to learn anything. I would not have learned a single word, I would have studied only you.”

Bedelia says nothing to acknowledge the boy’s shameless flirtation, though Hannibal does see her smile, ever-so-slightly. Her fingers twirl the stem of her wine glass coquettishly, even as the diamond on her ring finger flashes in the light.

“And where is your husband, _il dottore?_ ”

“A scholar often gets lost in his work. He was detained at the library today.”

The boy (and he truly is a _boy_ , Hannibal, thinks, half-hair and half-braggadocio) purses his full lips and leans closer to Bedelia. “I think your husband must have all ‘book smarts’ and no street smarts. It is not so clever to leave a wife so _belissima_ alone by herself. She may not be there when he returns.”

Hannibal cannot take the stranger’s rudeness any longer. He saunters over to the bar and lays a hand possessively on Bedelia’s shoulder, bending down to offer his “wife” a husbandly peck on cheek. “Darling, I’m so sorry I’m late.”

Bedelia blinks back at him, a bit flustered at the unexpected intimacy. “It’s fine. I was able to have them hold our reservation.”

Hannibal turns to the man next to Bedelia, buttons-up his person suit, and radiates affability, offering his hand. “Thank you for keeping my wife company. I would hate for her to get lonely.”

The boy smiles back, oozing a slick charm. “My pleasure, _dottore_.”

“My card. In case you should ever wish to be in touch with us.” A knowing, practiced pause. “May I have one of yours?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t have one.” The boy shrugs. “I’m more of a gentleman of leisure than a man of business.But thank you. _Ciao_ , _bella_.” He gets up from the bar, making sure to wink deliberately in Bedelia’s direction as he makes his exit.

Bedelia’s hand touches his arm and Hannibal knows its gentle pressure to be a caution, a warning. It calms him, but not nearly enough.

“Are you hungry?” she asks.

“Starving,” he all but snarls.

*****

They return back home after dinner, a tense but otherwise unremarkable meal. Bedelia lounges on the couch, sipping a tisane, and reading a back issue of _JAMA_. Hannibal prowls the flat like a tiger in his cage. Having scoured every pan in the kitchen and rearranged the pantry, he has now taken up pacing back and forth before the drawing room window, his usual outlet of stress relief unavailable to him.

Bedelia sighs audibly. “Is it your intention to kill every man in Italy who flirts with me, or just this one?” she quips, deadpan. “Hannibal, the larder is full. Moreover, we just arrived in Florence- it’s not prudent to keep burning through identities.”

“I know that,” he says waspishly. “Still, I found his flirtation very forward and very _rude_.”

“Why on earth should it bother you? If anyone should be offended, it’s me. And I’m not.”

The scene at the bar flashed before him again. The glimmer in her eye, the curve of her smile. When was the last time he had made Bedelia smile like that? Had he ever? “Yes, it’s very clear that you weren’t.”

“Nothing happened,” she says with a toss of her shining blonde hair. A gesture that is meant to look cool and casual, but one Hannibal has come to recognize as her tell.

“If you were here…on your own…without me, would you have gone to bed with him?” The thought plagues him and he doesn’t entirely understand why.

Bedelia snaps her journal shut, little patches of color dotting her pale cheeks. “Not that it is any of your business, but I am not in the habit of picking up strange young men in hotel bars. I find your line of questioning very improper.”

He feels her rebuke like a slap. “I’m sorry. I should not have…”

“But why did you? Why did this flirtation bother you so?” she asks, icy composure regained, therapeutic curiosity returned.

Hannibal considers her question carefully, then answers, “Because our cover identities require us to be husband and wife. You are supposed to be married to me.”

Bedelia rises slowly from the plush sofa, her form small but unyielding. She looks at him seriously and a little sadly. “You are supposed to be my husband, Hannibal. But you’re not, are you? Not really. Not in any way that matters.” She gathers her robe up tightly around her and he knows she is upset.

“Bedelia…” he pleads.

“I’m tired. It has been a long and unusually trying evening. I’m going to bed.”

His eyes follow her retreating form down the corridor. Bedelia encloses herself within the master bedroom that they do not share, going so far as to lock the door. Hannibal watches the rain streak down the windows, examining his feelings like an entomologist studying some new rare species of insect. 

*****

The next morning, Bedelia is polite, but distant at breakfast. She does not mention the night before, merely sips her cappuccino and nibbles at her _cornetto_ disinterestedly as he chats with her about a manuscript the library is hoping to acquire. She is there physically, but emotionally has retreated far away from him. He feels her professional wall descend between them again, an iron curtain.

This from the woman who is supposed to be his wife. It won’t do.

Hannibal arranges to leave the library early to prepare dinner, which he hopes will be a pleasant surprise for Bedelia. While she is out shopping, he makes delicate buttery gnocchi by hand and bathes them in a sherry cream sauce. Parsnips and vivid green _puntarelle_ drenched in olive oil, salt, and garlic on the side. A _tartufo_ of _lampone_ and _ciccolato_ with a perfect red raspberry at its center for dessert. It is not by any means a difficult meal to prepare, rather simple by his standards and lacking in certain choice ingredients. But Hannibal is not making this for himself.

She does smile slightly when she realizes he has prepared her favorite dishes, but her eyes are still wary all throughout the meal. He adores watching her eat his food, especially when her tongue flicks out to catch a drop of melting gelato, dangling from her lips like bright magenta blood.

He watches her and she watches him watching her. Familiar, but still intoxicating, even after all these years.

After dinner, he brings them both a hot toddy and joins her before the fire. Bedelia has her feet curled up beneath her, reading, her favorite Philip Glass piano concertos playing on the high-fi. He prefers the baroque masters, but has come to appreciate Bedelia’s modern composers, their cool, elegant minimalism seeming to mirror her own. It is in contrast to his own style, but not discordant.

He sits beside her on the sofa. “This is very…comfortable. We are a picture of domestic harmony, are we not?”

Bedelia places a bookmark in her book and arches an eyebrow.

“What I mean to say is that I enjoy coming home to you. More than I thought I would, after so many years of living alone,” he tells her honestly.

“I could say the same.”

“I am sorry about yesterday.”

“It’s fine.” A toss of her hair, an indifference that rings false.

“No, it’s not. I have spent too many evenings lost in my memory palace, poring over a past that cannot be undone. I have been…neglecting you.”

Bedelia returns to her book, dismissive. “I’m not some hothouse orchid that requires your constant attention. I am used to taking care of myself.”

He smiles at the image. For yes, he had come to know that though Bedelia often projected an illusion of fragile beauty, the damsel in distress, she was hardy and far cannier than anyone knew. She was a wild rose—resilient, thorny, and unspeakably lovely. “I don’t want you to have to take care of yourself. I want you to be happy.”

Bedelia looks back at him. “Hannibal, please, what on earth are you driving at?”

He meets her gaze, steady and even.“It’s unreasonable to expect either one of us to remain celibate indefinitely. But at the same time becoming involved with a third party carries unnecessary risks given our current situation.”

“Quite the conundrum.” Her tone is flat and hard, her gaze even harder.

“A conundrum with a simple solution.” He takes her hand in his, the one he had placed the ring on several weeks ago when they had assumed the identities of Doctor and Mrs. Fell. “I will care for you as a husband ought to care for his wife…if you wish it.”

Bedelia snatches her hand away and gives him a piercing, chilling look. She rises from the sofa and walks to the window, putting as much distance as possible between them as their sitting room allows. He knows he has somehow offended her again. “So you offer to service me like a mare in heat. How irresistible.”

“I am proposing a mutually beneficial sexual relationship. ‘Friends with benefits,’ I believe is the term.”

“It’s not going to happen, Hannibal. It can’t.”

“Because we were once psychiatrist and patient.” He had expected this objection.

She tosses her hair and looks at him askance over her shoulder. “I fired myself as your psychiatrist.”

“Yes, I recall.” It still stung.

“Because of our prior therapeutic relationship, I know a great deal about you. I sat opposite you for seven years and listened as you told me about your conquests. All those slim socialites and beautiful boys you seduced, played with, and abandoned just as easily once you were bored with them. As your psychiatrist, I withheld judgment.”

“But now you find you cannot?” Hannibal bristles at her assessment. “I have never had any complaints. They came to my bed, eager and willing, and left quite satisfied.”

“Yes, I would expect you bring the same exacting perfectionism to sex that you bring to everything else you do. But what I know and your former lovers did not was how little effect they had on you.” Her tone is the clinical assessment of the psychiatrist, but within it there the tiniest kernel of Bedelia the woman. And the woman is hurt.  

“I appreciate and enjoy sex as much as I enjoy an exquisite meal or a finely-crafted painting,” he offers in his own defense.

“Most people want to be something more than a meal or a painting to their partner. Part of the pleasure of sex comes from knowing that you are having the same effect on your lover that he or she is having on you,” she says, patient exasperation written all over her face. It’s a look he recognizes all too well. “No matter how much pleasure you brought me, it would all be hollow. Because I could never affect you the way you affected me.”

On some level, Hannibal knows she is right. The “social anti-social” she had called him once. “I have feelings for you. Tender feelings. Personal feelings.”

“I know you do, Hannibal. I never said you didn’t,” Bedelia tells him gently.

“Maybe I have changed. Will Graham said he had changed me.”

“How much, I wonder.” Her words are a mixture of intrigue and doubt.

He steps closer to her, he can feel the tension between them like an electric charge, static and palpable. She has not said yes to him, but neither has she entirely said no. He places both of his hands on the outside of her silk robe, embracing her loosely, and whispers in her ear. “Whatever happens would be entirely on your terms. You can have as much or as little of me as you want. Anything you want.”

She turns around to face him, her eyes heavy and lidded. She places her hands on his chest, the lightest touch. “Anything I want.”

Hannibal wonders at the depth of the bargain he is making. It oddly excites him. “Anything,” he tempts her.

She stays there, lost in their loose embrace and for a moment he thinks she is on the verge of drawing him down for a kiss. He nearly feels her resolve melt, like butter in a skillet, only to freeze up again just as suddenly.

“I’ll consider it.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bedelia accepts Hannibal's offer, with certain conditions.

Bedelia makes no mention of his proposal the day after. Or the day after that. Or even the day after that. They go through the motions of their usual platonic routine, but something has changed. His offer and her consideration hang between them, infused into every gesture, look, and conversation, a most piquant spice. It ruffles his almost unflappable composure to wait for her decision. The temptation to take her in his arms and kiss her until she sighs against him in surrender is great. But greater still is the delicious and wonderfully strange feeling of being at her mercy.

He knows better than to try to predict Bedelia. One might as well try to capture starlight in a jar. While he had longed his whole life for someone to know and see him, Bedelia always seemed to be motivated by the opposite impulse. At first he thought it some psychoanalytically informed sense of professional detachment. After months of living together, she still wore an air of mystery about her like a vintage Chanel suit. Her mind moved like quicksilver, chameleonic in its ability to disguise herself from others, including him. He wouldn’t have her any other way.

He catches her eyeing him in the kitchen doorway as he juliennes fresh basil into fine green thread. “Still considering?” he asks.

“Perhaps.”

“Is it really so difficult a decision?”

She removes a bottle of pinot grigio from the fridge and pours herself a generous glass. “All decisions are difficult where you are concerned, Hannibal,” she says. Her tone pairs well with the wine, dry and cold.

*****

That night, just before he is about to retire himself, there is a soft knock on his door. Bedelia stands before him in her navy silk pajamas and matching dressing gown.

“I have a request.”

Amusement warms him like a brandy. “Yes?”

She takes his hand in hers. “Would you come to bed with me? Just to sleep.”

It is truthfully not the request he was hoping for, but her blue eyes seem so dim and sad. He is no empath, but he senses her loneliness. He’s sensed it for many years, a trail of blood in the water that neither acknowledges. “I promised you whatever you wanted, Bedelia. I will keep my promise.”

She guides him by the hand down the hall to her bedroom. He keeps clothes in here for appearances’ sake, but has been sleeping on the narrow daybed in his study since they arrived in Florence. Hannibal has never required much sleep, and it seemed only gentlemanly to let his “wife” have the larger, more comfortable bed. She draws back the covers on the right and he climbs in beside her on the left. The sheets are cool, snowy, and soft. Bedelia turns on her side away from him.

Hannibal knows what she wants but needs to hear her tell him. “Do you want me to hold you?”

“Yes,” Bedelia breathes.

Hannibal extinguishes the small bedside lamp and gathers her in his arms, spooning her, enveloping her. She is so small and warm against him. He can smell the honeysuckle of her shampoo, the beeswax and vanilla bean of the lotion he bought for her. Her manner has always been cool and sharp, her scent rich and deep—a pleasing contradiction.

He rests a hand on her hip. Bedelia takes it and guides it to her silk-covered breast. Her nipple hardens beneath his palm and Hannibal feels his own cock stir in response. “Are you sure this is all you want?” he asks.

“This is all I want for now.”

Her words sting him with rejection yet soothe him with hope. He holds her as gently and reverently as he knows how and considers this evening to be great progress. He has handed the conductor’s baton to Bedelia and so she will set the tempo of their physical relationship. Hannibal listens to her breathe, enjoying the novelty of holding her in his arms at last. After a few minutes, he feels her shudder slightly, hears her breathing hitch. Saline scents the air. She’s crying.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing.” She pulls her hand away and wipes at her face.

Hannibal finds himself at a loss for what to say. He has cried in front of her many times, but Bedelia has never cried in front of him, not even on the day her patient attacked her. “Do you wish me to stop?”

“Please don’t.” A tear drops on his hand. Her chest rises and falls, once, twice. “No one has done this for me in a very long time.”

 

He pulls her closer and feels her snuggle against him. He strokes her hair. Her breathing evens, her pulse slows.  Cried out, she drifts off to sleep easily in his arms.

Blood in the water and a trail that leads to  _terra_   _incognita_.

***** 

Hannibal awakes in the grey of dawn, his palm still cupping Bedelia’s breast, his cock, aching and hard, pressed up against her soft curves. He is less surprised at his body’s response to her than at the fact he appears to have slept a good eight or nine hours, double the four or five he usually requires. Bedelia, thankfully, is fast asleep, a tumble of golden hair spread over the pillowcase.  He imagines her waking to the feel of his erection against her, rolling him over, beckoning him inside. Someday perhaps, but today such an action would likely send her scampering away from him like a frightened doe. He stifles a groan of frustration as he pulls away from her warmth and heads to the flat’s single bathroom.

Hannibal turns up the shower to scalding, and takes himself in hand.  He teases the sensitive head briefly, then strokes harder, rougher.  He imagines thrusting into her, thumb brushing up against the swollen nub of her clitoris while he takes a rosy nipple between his teeth. He pictures Bedelia’s marble features soft and undone with pleasure, like Bernini’s  _Teresa in Estasi_ , pierced by fire. He comes with her name on his lips, hot water raining down around him.

He goes about his day at the Palazzo Capponi, sifting through medieval manuscripts, filling the requests of visiting scholars, but his thoughts return and return to Bedelia. He strolls the corridors of his memory palace, trying to remember every scrap of gossip he had ever heard of her, every conversation they ever had together. His efforts produce very little, for Bedelia had always been both elusive and reclusive. There had been rumors—a torrid affair with a Hopkins resident, a jilted ex-lover somewhere in her past. But such rumors often revealed more about those who spread them than about Bedelia herself. Hannibal was forced to concede that she still knew a great deal more about him than he knew about her. Such asymmetry was natural for a psychiatrist and her patient, but not between husband and wife.

At precisely eleven, Bedelia rises from the sofa and asks, “Are you coming to bed?” Hannibal feels compelled to follow. This night when he slips in beside her she does not cry. Nor does she ask for any part of him beside his arms around her. Hannibal wonders again at the pea-sized morsel of loneliness within her heart, heavy as lead and diamond-hard. He wonders if she fantasizes about another man. He wonders if someone has hurt her.

 _Besides you, Hannibal?_ Bedelia’s voice taunts him even while she is asleep.

***** 

The pattern continues for the rest of the week. He spends his days at the Palazzo Capponi and in the evenings he returns home to Bedelia. He cooks, they eat, art and psychiatry are discussed over wine and music. Every night, he joins her in bed and holds her chastely in his arms. Every morning, he wakes up embarrassingly erect. It is equal parts maddening and fascinating.

Friday evening, he is in bed before her. When she joins him, she is wearing a sleek ruby negligee instead of her usual conservative pajamas. The gown is low-cut in the front, lace-edged cups framing her ample décolleté. He lets himself hope that Bedelia has decided to quicken the tempo of their intimacy from  _adagio_ to  _allegro._

“This is new,” he observes.

“I went shopping.” She dims the light and climbs in beside him, folding herself neatly on her side.

“Did you buy it with any special purpose in mind?” He lets his hand roam the silky curve of her hip, teasing the planes of her stomach, before lightly brushing the underside of her breast.

Bedelia’s body offers no reaction to his touch. “I bought it for the purpose of sleeping. Why, did you think I bought it for you?”

Her words prick and needle at his pride, and it all snaps into place. “You’ve had me operating under false pretenses.”

“What pretenses would those be?”

“I was under the impression that you wished to take things slowly because you were frightened of intimacy. Now, I see that you merely wish to tease me,” he grazes her nipple with a fingernail, in a gesture he hopes is equally teasing.

Her hand moves to her breast to still him, and he relents. “Why must it be one or the other?” Even in the dark he can hear the smile in her voice. “Goodnight, Hannibal.”

In the morning, he awakes again beside her, painfully hard. This time, however, he makes no effort to hide it from her, instead he pulls her closer. She stirs and turns to face him. He can feel his cock poking against her silken-covered stomach and he knows she can feel it, too.

“Good morning. Did you sleep well?” Bedelia asks, syrupy sweet.

“In torturing me this way, you only torture yourself.”

“Do I seem tortured to you, Hannibal?” Her voice is husky with sleep, and cruelty, too, Hannibal thinks.

Bedelia’s manicured nails skim his pajama shirt, toying playfully with the buttons, as they maneuver their way downward. Her hand stops precisely at the waistband of his bottoms and lingers, so warm and so close. He groans, knowing she intends to go no further.

Her eyes meet his, sapphire masking steel. “I’ll let you have the first shower of the morning, shall I?”

*****

That evening Hannibal returns home to find that Bedelia has rearranged the furniture in the sitting room. She sits in an armchair in front of the flat’s large window, shutters drawn back to let in the dying afternoon light. Another chair sits opposite, empty and waiting for him. The Tuscan sun catches Bedelia’s hair, the sunset burnishing blonde into gold and bronze. The room is smaller, the light warmer, and Bedelia’s suit of plum tweed is off the rack and not couture. But all in all it is a fair approximation of her home in Baltimore. Which he supposes is entirely what she intended.

“Have a seat, Hannibal. We have something to discuss,” she says, smoothly professional.

He removes his jacket and leaves his leather briefcase in the foyer before taking his usual seat opposite her. He is patient, yet expectant. “Yes?”

“We need to discuss your rather obvious pattern.”

“Which pattern would that be?”

“Your penchant for unobtainable women.”

Hannibal mentally buttons-up his person suit, smoothes out the wrinkles, and replies, “I don’t follow.”

“You do. The mother who died and orphaned you, the beloved sister lost to you, the aunt who rejected you.” She ticks off his pain like beads on a merciless rosary. “To say nothing of the profiler who tricked and betrayed you.”

“And what exactly does this have to do with you and me?”

“If I have been…reticent…in accepting your proposal, it is only because I fear that you prefer me to be forbidden to you, the snow-capped summit of a faraway peak. Once you have what you wish from me, you will lose interest, and I become discardable. Disposable.” 

“You have held my interest for seven years and grow more fascinating with each passing day. And I resent your characterization of my previous lovers as  _disposable_.”

A cruel smile curls around Bedelia’s lips. “A pity Alana Bloom cannot be present with us today to offer a rebuttal.”

Hannibal can feel pain and anger roaring up within him, poking through the stitching of his battered person suit. He dislikes discussing the events of that evening and she knows it.  “What happened to Alana had nothing to do with her being my lover. I did not wish to hurt her. I gave her a choice—she chose imprudently.”  

“So you say.” Bedelia pauses, the subject dropped, but not forgotten. She tilts her head toward him, eyes sparkling with curiosity. “When you told me I could have whatever I wanted from you, as much or as little as I wanted from you, were you sincere?”

“I was.”

She crosses her legs, skirt riding just an inch or two higher than what would be considered modest. “I will take you up on your offer, Hannibal. I will be your wife in the flesh, and not just on paper, and you will be a husband to me. But only if you obey me and follow my instructions in this regard. If you fail to comply or repeat the petulant behavior of this morning, our relationship will revert back to being strictly platonic,” she says, a voice like a whipcrack. “These are my terms. Do you accept them?"

His heart quickens, a silent gracenote. “You may consider me a slave to your every whim.”

A muscle twitches in Bedelia’s cheek and he suspects she is suppressing a laugh. “What an interesting turn of phrase.” She crooks a finger. “Come here.”

Hannibal rises from his chair and crosses the three or four feet of Persian carpet to stand before Bedelia. He dwarfs her in sheer physical size, yet, reclining in her chair, a queen on her throne, she towers over him psychologically. He waits for her instructions, anticipation coursing through his veins, headier than champagne. “What is your desire?”

Bedelia rolls the words around in her mouth like a sip of pinot noir. “I want you to satisfy me.”

A smile tugs at the corner of Hannibal’s lips and he reaches to unbuckle his belt. She lays a cool hand over his and shakes her head. “With your mouth.”

“It would be my pleasure,” he says, stooping to kneel before her. Bedelia uncrosses her legs and plants her black leather heels on either side of Hannibal’s head, letting their stiletto tips dig into his shoulders almost fondly. He can smell fresh leather, her stockings scented with lavender from the sachet in her dresser, and underneath it all,  _her_. He can feel himself already growing hard and he’s hasn’t even touched her.

He wonders if she knows how many times he has imagined performing this particular act on her and decides to tell her. “I used to fantasize about doing this to you when you were my psychiatrist.”

“I’m sure you did.”

He removes her pumps, planting soft kisses on the inside of her ankles, stroking the bottom of her stocking feet. She has the fine-boned arches of a prima ballerina. “Did you fantasize about me?”

“Never,” she tells him with a broad smile.

Hannibal pauses in his ministrations, momentarily unsettled. “But you were attracted to me.”

“To an extent. It’s unseemly to fantasize about a patient.”

Hannibal makes a small  _tsk_. “Such chains you keep on your imagination, Dr. Du Maurier.”

“Perhaps.” She gently strokes his cheek with her foot. “Don’t you have a task to perform?”

Hannibal nods his head decorously and bends to his charge. He runs his cheek lovingly against the smooth silk of her legs, longing for so much more of her, but wanting to savor this as long as possible. Even through the imported rug he can feel the hardness of the marble against his knees, the cold of the floor seeping in, but he doesn’t care. When he reaches a spot mid-thigh, he nips at the flesh hard enough to leave a bruise, untying each garter painstakingly with his teeth.

Bedelia inches forward in the armchair and rolls up her skirt, beckoning him in. He can smell her arousal now in all its fullness, musk-deep and oddly sweet. Her scent has him fully erect, straining at his fine wool trousers. He resists the urge to touch himself, and instead focuses entirely on her. He kisses his way up her soft thighs until he arrives at her silken-covered sex. He reaches out with his tongue and teases her through the damp silk, tasting salt, until Bedelia draws aside her underwear, exposing herself to him. Second-rate pornographers might rhapsodize about opening flowers and quivering rosebuds, but to Hannibal all that matters is that her sex is aroused, swollen, and obviously wet. He tastes her and she moans, head tossed back in pleasure.

Her hands tangle in his hair, urging him closer, but he can’t resist teasing her, not after the game she’s played with him. He circles her clit experimentally before beginning to inscribe his name with his tongue. He has Bedelia moaning at H, her hips bucking wantonly at B, coming for him by the time he reaches L.

Her breathing slows, and she smooths her skirt. She pulls both of them to their feet. He is all too suddenly aware of his own arousal and the damp spot that has formed on the outside of his good trousers. Bedelia replaces her heels and stands on her tiptoes, drawing him down for a kiss. It is their first kiss, slow, messy, and open mouthed. She drinks him in, tasting herself eagerly on his tongue. Her hand brushes lightly against the front of his trousers, sending him over the edge. He comes in his pants at her barest touch like a hopeless adolescent.

He showers again and changes his clothes, deliberately choosing not to brush his teeth-- he intends to savor the taste of her as long as possible. Bedelia, he decides, will pair well with  _vin santo_  and almond biscotti, savory and sweet balanced perfectly on his tongue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fun has just begun. 
> 
> Kudos are lovely and comments divine. Thank you everyone for all the enthusiasm for this story!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bedelia teaches Hannibal a new recipe and the value of discipline.

“I need your help in the kitchen, Hannibal,” Bedelia calls out as he walks in the front door.

He finds her there, fresh egg pasta spooling between her floured hands, his best apron in stark white contrast to the mocha of her dress. Bedelia sets out a knife and points him in the direction of a small mound of anchovies. “Chop,” she instructs, turning back to her pasta.

Warily, Hannibal dons his spare apron and picks up the chef’s knife. He knows she won’t chip the cherry finish of his Le Creuset saucepans or dull his new German knives, but all the same he is finding it more difficult to cede control to her here than he did last night in the sitting room.

“Is there a problem?” she asks, hands on her hips.

“I seem to have been demoted to sous-chef in my own kitchen.”

Bedelia’s eyes glitter in response. “Humor me.”

For the next half hour, he dices, slices, and minces, rendering black olives, flavorful garlic, and yellow onions into small cubes at Bedelia’s command. Plump plum tomatoes simmer in their juices on the stove. The humidity turns the kitchen into a veritable greenhouse, causing Bedelia’s skin to take on a dewy, natural flush that reminds him altogether too much of sex. Even more so when he realizes the dish they are making.

When the sauce has finished reducing, Bedelia bends over the pan, dress tight against her generous backside and takes a sip. She moans softly in delight, a sound that pierces him, nearly melting him. She lifts the wooden spoon to his lips. “Taste,” she commands.

Hannibal takes an obedient sip. The sauce is good, perhaps not as good as his, but very good. He smiles. “ _Sugo alla Puttanesca_. Meaning, ‘from a whore’s kitchen.’ What are you trying to say, Bedelia?”

“Did I ever tell you that you have a tendency to overanalyze things?” She wags the spoon at him reproachfully, then turns back to ladle the red sauce over the linguine.

“Besides, as you like to remind me, it’s  _your_  kitchen,” she says.

*****

They eat dinner in near silence, feasting on the delicious dish they have made and an even more delicious tension. Hannibal finds he can barely taste the food, as his other senses scream and shout Bedelia: the smell of her perfume overlaid with spices, the little sounds of pleasure she makes as she eats, the predatory gleam in her eye that has sighted him as prey. There is an uncertainty that hangs in the air. Something is going to happen, but for once in a very long time, Hannibal does not know what it is.

Hannibal stands and moves to clear the table. Bedelia locks her small hand tight around his wrist, lacquered fingernails nearly breaking the skin.

“I’m full, but I’m not satisfied, Hannibal,” she says.

He nods, and she relinquishes his wrist. “I notice you have not prepared dessert.”

Bedelia clears his plate and silverware away, and hops up on the table, a cool challenge in her eye. She pushes his shoulder down, and he sits, his head nearly level with her bare thighs. He doesn’t need her to tell him that she intends the next course of the meal to be her.

A smile spreads across his face as desire pools in his belly, white-hot and golden. She removes her underwear for him and draws up the hem of her skirt to her waist. He can see her now, the blonde curls slick and dark for him, labia swollen and firm. He bends to her sex and kisses it, penetrating her with the full thrust of his tongue. He kisses her there again and again, tongue diving in, taste after taste as she moans for him, low and sweet.

He pulls back from her and she sighs in frustration. His well-tailored pants now feel altogether a size too small and it takes all his concentration to steady himself—he would be mortified to spend himself in front of her again. “I’d like to use my hands this time, if I may?” She nods. Hannibal removes his cufflinks, setting them on the table with a plink, and rolls up his shirtsleeves to mid-forearm. He slides his index finger into her effortlessly, she closes her eyes and nods, and he slides in another, working them back and forth until he finds that rough inner ridge of skin and curls his fingers forward.

Bedelia trembles around him. “More,” she demands and he is all too happy to oblige, fingers filling her to the brim. Her hand is cupping her own breast, pinching her nipples through the fabric of her dress and bra as she grinds herself against him. Their eyes lock and Hannibal is no longer at all certain who is in control—she in her command of him, he as the instrument of her pleasure. The urge to taste her again is overwhelming. He wraps his lips around her clitoris and sucks gently, flicking is tongue in time with his thrusts. Her inner walls clamp down on him hard, making him long for the day she takes him inside her at last. He presses harder against her, her hips quivering as she climaxes with a wordless moan.

He wants to keep fucking her, to give her one orgasm after another until she is weak and limp with pleasure, but her hands snake through his hair and pull him sharply away from her. Bedelia is slightly unsteady as she slides down from the table. Her eyes narrow in on the erection tenting his trousers. Hannibal stands to leave. He has no intention of replicating the humiliating experience of last night. “If you’ll excuse me,” he says.

Bedelia shakes her head and unbuckles his belt. She sits in his chair and says, “Show me.”

Hannibal feels himself flush. Acting on pure instinct, he unzips his trousers and parts his silk boxers, taking the full erect length of himself in hand. Bedelia looks on approvingly, he thinks, a perfect Mona Lisa smile playing on her lips. His right hand is still wet and slick from her, the perfect natural lubricant as he strokes.

“Lightly,” Bedelia corrects and he loosens his grip. It teases him, the most exquisite torture. She strokes him with glances and flutters of her lashes, invisible touches that spur him on.

“Do you like what you see?” he asks, thickly, even more aroused at the thought of performing for her.

“I like seeing you in such a desperate state.” Bedelia stands and crosses behind him, her nails teasing the sensitive skin near his scrotum. “Faster and tighter, I think now.” It’s the maddening calm in her voice that nearly undoes him. He complies with a moan of his own.

Bedelia is pressed up flat against his buttocks and he can feel the sweet heat of her even through his clothes. She has one hand splayed against his stomach, the mounds of her breasts press against the thin fabric of his dress shirt. He’s near now, so very near to the edge. She brings a cloth dinner napkin to the tip of his phallus. “Hannibal, spend,” she whispers to him, and he does, climaxing at her command.

She continues to hold him as his body returns to homeostasis. He tucks himself back in his trousers and turns to face her. She pulls him down and plants the lightest of kisses at the very corner of his mouth. “I believe it’s your turn to do the dishes,” is all she says.

*****

The library hosted one of its wealthiest donors the next afternoon. The meeting ran overtime, and Hannibal felt that to leave early would have been an egregious display of rudeness. He texted Bedelia to let her know he would not be home for dinner, but received no reply.

He arrives home to find Bedelia reading on her tablet in her favorite armchair. “I’m sorry that things ran late.”

“There are leftovers in the refrigerator if you are hungry. I ate without you,” she tells him coolly, not even bothering to look up from her screen.

“I am sorry it could not be avoided.” He takes a step closer to her.

Bedelia gives the tiniest of shrugs, but remains silent.

“You are unhappy with me.”

Her eyes flick up from the screen, a glacial white-blue. “I had something special planned for us,” she says, her voice full of vague promises.

“We could still do what you had planned. It’s hardly late,” he says in a tone more eager than he would like.

“I find I am no longer in the mood.”

He stands there, frostbitten by her indifference. “How can I make it up to you?”

Bedelia shoots him an evaluative glance. He feels himself under her microscope, a lost Vermeer to her appraiser’s eye, every brushstroke probed for weakness and analyzed for authenticity. She points to a spot about a foot away from her on the floor. “You may kneel here as your punishment and contemplate all the ways you have displeased me.”

“For how long?” Hannibal speaks in his lowest baritone, yet hears the echo of a willful child in his own voice.

“Until I am satisfied,” Bedelia says, firm yet gentle.

“As you wish.” Hannibal dutifully crosses the small room, pulls up his trousers, and kneels. The spot Bedelia has chosen is on bare varnished wood and is as unyielding as her displeasure. She has lit a fire, but he can feel the cold seep in from the floorboards and drift in from the windows on this damp winter’s night. Though she has not asked it of him, he bows his head and clasps his arms behind his back, appropriately penitent.

Bedelia continues to read, completely indifferent to him and his pain, pausing only to swipe at the screen to turn the page. She seems to be deeply engrossed in her reading, her lack of interest in him anything but feigned. Hannibal has played at these sorts of scenarios with lovers before. He is no stranger to games of power in the bedroom, though certainly his lovers seemed to expect him to assume the dominant role. There were a few adventurous women who wished to restrain him, one brazen girl who even sought to whip and cane him. He indulged them, played the submissive for the sheer novelty of it, secure in his knowledge that the knots were loosely tied and he could overpower them in an instant. Whatever pain they might have inflicted on his body, they could not so much as scratch the surface of his psyche. Truthfully, such exercises had provided him with little in the way of either novelty or pleasure.

With Bedelia it was different. It always had been.

No whips, no chains, just the steel in her voice and the ice in her eyes that set his knees bending. The crook of her varnished fingernail tugging at some long buried need inside his soul. The hard floor is merciless, sending jolts of pain through his middle-aged joints. He’s in genuine pain, but pride refuses to let him cry out. He will not let her master him so easily.

“I’m nearly finished,” she says calmly.

His knees buck, he’s shaking, nearly at his own physical limits. He pushes himself further, screws his eyes firmly shut against the pain. Stars blossom before his eyelids in psychedelic shades. He rebels against her torments while the same time longing for her favor.

At the very moment where he is sure his body can take no more of this, Bedelia’s cool voice washes over him. “That’s enough for now, Hannibal. Come sit over here.” Her ringed hand beckons him toward her armchair and the plush rug at her feet.

Hannibal collapses next to her with a groan. Bedelia’s delicate hands stroke his sweat-slick hair and he finds himself resting his head against her knees. The comfort after the hurt is a balm on his soul, a medicine for a sickness he hadn’t even realized he was stricken with. “I’m so sorry, Bedelia.”

“There are consequences to your actions. Especially with me,” she explains without rancor.

He nods and presses himself closer to her silk-covered knees. Bedelia does not stop him or pull away. He’d always been fascinated with her legs, their graceful length prominently on display at every therapy session, the only bit of flesh she had ever allowed him to glimpse as her patient. “What were you reading?” he asks, voice still thick with pain.

“The latest issue of  _The New Yorker_. A roundtable series on one Dr. Hannibal Lecter entitled ‘American Ripper: A Monster for the Modern Age.’ You’ve become a Rorschach test for the chattering classes.”

Hannibal represses a small snort and cranes upward to get a glance at the screen. “What did they say?”

“Surely you read your own press?”

He did. He might have termed it a guilty pleasure if he actually believed in guilt. “I haven’t seen this one.”

“Very well,” Bedelia says succinctly, hefting her tablet with one hand while resting the other possessively on his neck. “Melissa Harris-Perry from MSNBC thinks the media frenzy surrounding the Chesapeake Ripper distracts from the very real problems surrounding gun violence, particularly police violence, and the prison industrial complex. Dr. Harris-Perry reminds her audience that “while Hannibal the Cannibal is a singular individual, some of the serial killers out there have police badges.’ I am nearly inclined to agree with her—you  _are_  a distraction.”

Hannibal was inclined to agree as well, if only out of his experience trying to help Will Graham awaken and nurture his own violent nature, but he did not tell Bedelia this. “What else do they say?”

“A professor of American Studies that thinks you are ‘the perfect emblem of late capitalism in post-post industrial America. The apex predator is the ultimate consumer.’ For you, your fellow man is just another luxury good.”

Hannibal tastes something sour in his mouth. “His banality borders on rudeness.”

“Well, to the man with a Marxist hammer, everyone looks like a capitalist nail.” Bedelia quips, tone parched like a dry white. “There’s an artist who thinks you are perhaps the most innovative thing to happen since Warhol and that a century from now your crime scenes will be revered as the masterful installations that they are. The ‘Christo of Murder’ he calls you.”

Hannibal preens slightly to hear that, deep inside where he thinks Bedelia can’t see it. He runs his hand up and down her silk-clad legs, trailing his forefinger along the old-fashioned seam. “How interesting.”

“The last panelist was our esteemed colleague Dr. Frederick Chilton.” Bedelia pauses, letting the intrigue breathe like a rare vintage. “Shall I continue?”

Hannibal stills his hand just a moment before saying, “Please do.”

“Frederick doesn’t mince words. He calls you a narcissist, a sociopath, and accuses you of having a God complex ‘larger then Texas.’ He insults your therapy, implying that since you lacked the skills to adequately treat your patients, you turned them into killers. He also insinuates that you are a sexual sadist who also suffers from erectile dysfunction, the sharp edge of your carving knife serving as a proxy for your own impotent penis,” Bedelia concludes with a flourish.

Hannibal says nothing, though inwardly feels his empty stomach start to rumble.

Bedelia’s hand tangles again in his hair, twisting the locks at the nape of his neck. “What are you thinking of?”

“A recipe for Rocky Mountain Oysters that I have always lacked the proper ingredients for.”

“Forgive me if I decline that particular dish.”

Hannibal cranes his neck up to look at her. “And what would Dr. Bedelia Du Maurier have said about the Ripper if she had been reached for comment?”

Bedelia gazes down at him, placid, beatific. “I never had the pleasure of meeting the Chesapeake Ripper and I hope I never shall. I only am acquainted with the man known as Hannibal Lecter.”

“Frederick Chilton diagnosed me as a textbook sadist, while you seem to believe I am some kind of masochist.”

“It would seem I am correct in that regard.” Bedelia gently nudges her foot in the direction of his cock, grown half-hard as he basked in her attention and the sun-like warmth of her presence. “Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, but the Chesapeake Ripper is not all of Hannibal Lecter,” she says enigmatically.

“So, you believe the Ripper is a sadist, but the man is a masochist.” Hannibal pulls away, but lets his hand linger on her calf, unwilling to let go of her.

Bedelia’s blue eyes swarm with pity, the way they often do when she wants to point out some obviously painful truth to him. “I think your work as a psychiatrist—and as a killer—required you to display dominance and control nearly at all times. Your patients and your victims expected that of you—as well as those who were treated to a seat at your table. From what you have told me of your past, the burdens of adulthood were thrust upon you at a tender age.”

Hannibal tightens his grip on Bedelia’s small ankle. “Do not tell me you are planning on bringing Freud into this.”

“I would never be so crude or reductive.” He loosens his hold and Bedelia crosses her legs, revealing a wide swath of creamy thigh. “I am simply making the observation that you were called to be an authority figure by your mother while still a child yourself. Your aunt likewise treated you as a surrogate husband instead of her impressionable young charge." Bedelia pauses a moment, and reclines further back in her chair, adopting a queenly pose. "Power…influence…some may say they are a burden. How tempting it must be to lay that burden down after so many years.”

Hannibal drinks in her words, water to a parched garden. His first inclination is to protest against her assessment of him. But there is no denying the sweet sinful pleasure he finds kneeling at her feet, the safety there, too. “I feel like one of Will Graham’s dogs,” he admits sheepishly.

“Will Graham loves his dogs. Would that be such a terrible thing to be?”

Hannibal has no response, his gaze shifts down to the floor. He shrugs in a way he hasn’t done since he was a teenager.

“A good master…or mistress…cares for her pets. She provides them with affection, stability, and security.”

Hannibal feels his heart grow tight within his chest. “And discipline?”

“When necessary.” Bedelia smiles carefully in a way that tickles him unexpectedly. His cock grows harder at the promise of it.

Hannibal pulls himself closer to her, causing Bedelia to withdraw. She rises from the chair, treating him to a voyeuristic glimpse of her stockings and garters. She extends her hand to him and he takes it obediently. It soon becomes necessary as his aching knees buck underneath him.

He staggers to his feet, throws his shoulders back and attempts to regain what is left of his dignity. “Is that why you did this—to discipline me”

Bedelia cocks her head, a bird on the wire. “I was curious. I did it to see if you would do it.”

He scowls at her, openly. He decides to slash at her own person suit, exposing her the way she has always exposed him. “Your act does not fool me, Bedelia. You wear the mask of the dominatrix, so that I will not see the hurt and lonely woman beneath. But I do see her.”

“Is that what you think?” Bedelia steps closer, her lips are thinned and her stare chill. He has lobbed a psychological javelin in her direction, but it glances off her. She is steel, she is Teflon, she is smooth Venetian glass. Her hand reaches up to caress his face, thumbnail tracing the line of his cheekbone. “Oh Hannibal,” she says pityingly, “I only ever wear the masks you ask me to wear.”

She turns away, leaving him to turn over her words again and again, a fugue of a melody he cannot get out of his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rocky Mountain Oysters are bull testicles. I wouldn't want to be Chilton, yikes. 
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you again for all the comments, kudos and general enthusiasm for this story! Stay tuned for the next and final chapter, in which Bedelia and Hannibal discover the pleasures of penetration....yes, I am saving the fireworks for the grand finale.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bedelia and Hannibal undertake a psychological experiment.

Day after day they circle each other like sharks, the scales weighted heavily in Bedelia’s favor. There are times when he will catch the scent of her on his fingertips, the savory taste of her on the tip of his tongue, and he will find himself growing hard beneath his desk at the Palazzo Capponi. More and more, Hannibal suspects the lead-heavy bullet of loneliness is not Bedelia’s, the blood in the water no one’s but his own.

*****

A drizzly afternoon. A bland, tepid weak tea of a day at the library. The manuscripts no matter how priceless nor how beautifully illuminated pale in comparison to a moment naked and trembling before her. Not fifteen minutes after walking in the door, Bedelia calls him on the carpet, quite literally.

“I have a something special planned for this evening’s entertainment. A surprise.”

The sensitive instrument of his body is already humming with anticipation. He feels like his own theremin, Bedelia playing upon him effortlessly, drawing arousal out of him without ever touching him at all. “The same surprise you had planned for the other evening?” he asks huskily.

Bedelia looks at him downcast through her blonde lashes and shakes her head. “A different one.” She waltzes around him, her heels clicking on the floor in the sure staccato of a flamenco dancer. “Remove everything from the waist down and stand behind the sofa.”

Hannibal feels flush with something like fever and nearly hates himself for it. But underneath the loathing there is excitement—and hope. Hope that she has been as maddened by the slow torture of these games as he has. Hope that today is the day she will finally let him have her completely. “As you wish,” he says, stepping out of his loafers and peeling off his socks. He takes his time undressing, making sure all the clothes are folded neatly, confident that Bedelia will find his muscular thighs and toned buttocks pleasing. When he is finished, he takes his place behind the sofa, his erection brushing up against the worn velvet upholstery.

“Very good,” Bedelia pronounces when he is finished. “Now bend over.”

Hannibal braces himself against the back of the sofa, imagination racing at what might happen next. The possibilities leave him intrigued and the slightest bit apprehensive. He feels exposed, vulnerable even, with his naked bottom in the air for Bedelia’s inspection, unable to turn his head to see what she is doing.

He hears the familiar snap of sterile nitrile gloves against skin and the sound of something thick and viscous being squirted from a bottle. “Bedelia…what are you…”

“Silicone-based lubricant. Medical grade. I purchased it along with the gloves at the  _faramacia_ this morning. I think the pharmacist knew what I was about.” He does not need to turn around to see the satisfied smirk on her face. “You asked me once if I enjoyed penetration. Well, here we are.”

The realization of what is about to happen washes over him. “This is not what I had in mind.”

Bedelia senses his apprehension. Her gloved hand rests against his bare rump possessively. “Tell me you want to stop and we’ll stop, Hannibal.”

He remembers her words when this all began. “If we stop now, everything ends, you said.”

“So I did.”

“It’s not exactly fair, the position you’ve put me in.”

“Since when have you ever dealt in fairness?” she asks, her tone so impersonal, so neutral it’s chilling.

He huffs a bit, blending his squeamishness with a soupcon of indifference. “Well, if this will bring you pleasure, by all means continue, Bedelia.”

“I think you will find it will bring you pleasure, too.” Her left hand traces the flank of his hip, her fingernail teasing through the material of her gloves. It’s still too removed, too distant, but nevertheless unspeakably arousing. “I haven’t done this since medical school, but let me assure you I always had a certain…competency…at this particular procedure.”

Her lubed finger is poised at the entrance to his anus and he can feel the cool gel spreading between his cheeks, the touch of her hands every bit as deft and delicate as the familiar touch of her mind. Despite his initial reservations, he has never been more aroused in his entire life, his cock hard, every nerve ending taught. He’s vibrating like a harp string, aching to be plucked. He closes his eyes and braces himself for the feel of her inside him.

“Eyes open, Hannibal.” Her left hand yanks him back by the hair, forcing him to catch his own reflection in the mirror hanging over the fireplace. “I want you to watch yourself. To watch us.”

“Yes,” he breathes.

Still tugging on his hair, Bedelia slips her small index finger inside of him and he moans at the invasion. He finds himself grinding back on her eager for more as she moves it slowly in and out, in and out. A second slick finger follows. Two fingers now reaching, sliding inside him until they brush against his prostate and he hisses shamelessly.

In the mirror he can see Bedelia nod, towering above him like a goddess in her stiletto heels, Venus in Louboutins. She slips in a third finger, curling them together. Her small fingers fill him, knuckles brushing against his prostate deliciously. He’s so aroused, so open. The tip of his cock and his nipples are painfully, extraordinarily sensitive. He wonders if she will feel like this when he finally fucks her and he groans.

“Have you truly never done this before?” she asks.

“No,” he says between gasps.

“A pity. You seem to enjoy it.”

Bedelia begins to fuck him in earnest. He is bucking against her now, leaning in to every thrust, wanting more and more of the painful pleasure she gives. He watches in the mirror, her face cool and calm, his own flushed, hair mussed and falling into his eyes. He looks wanton, undone. No woman or man had ever made him feel this way. Her left hand reaches to grab his cock and he leans forward into her touch. She has him at both ends, utterly in her grasp. He is hers.

His orgasm comes without warning, hard and total. For a moment his vision goes black, and he is weightless, untethered from this earth, from past and present and time itself. When he comes back to himself, there are tears in his eyes. He thinks he might have screamed.

He turns around to see Bedelia stripping off her dirtied gloves. Her bare hand snakes beneath the waistband of her skirt and she begins touching herself furiously beneath the fine navy wool. He drops to his knees before her—he wants, no, he  _needs_  the satisfaction of feeling her come beneath his lips and tongue. But before he can touch her, she bats his hands away. He is forced to watch, hopeless and helpless, as she brings herself off. With her eyes closed and heart locked tight away from him, she climaxes.

He turns away from her and replaces his boxers and trousers, sliding into his loafers without bothering to put on his socks. When he turns back around, her silk blouse is half untucked, her hands toying with the ends of her blonde hair. She doesn’t look at him. It is paradoxical, oxymoronic. In this moment they are both closer and more distant than they ever have been.

“Bedelia,” he asks in desperation, “when does this end?”

“It ends when you want it to end, Hannibal.”

“I don’t want it to end,” he tells her sincerely. “But this game we are playing…”

Her eyes glitter back at him, the sharp beauty he has seen before only at the edge of a knife, the searing white-blue of the center of a burner’s flame. “It’s not the game you expected, is it?”

As usual, her words have hit their mark with a sharpshooter’s grace. He shakes his head. “I don’t know what I expected.”

She reaches a hand to his face, lets her thumbs trace the sharp outline of his jaw and cheekbone, her fingertips curl around his hair and the shell of his ear. “Before I met you, Hannibal, I had a thriving practice, untold outlets for mental stimulation. Now...we are each other’s only opponents. There is no other game left to play.” She pauses, all the better to let her words cut deep to the marrow. “This was your design.”

The truth, sharp and heavy, cuts through him like a butcher’s cleaver. He finds himself mentally grasping for his person suit only to find it ragged, no comfort at all. “So, this is your revenge.”

Bedelia’s hands travel down to his waist, urging his reluctant body closer. Her head tilts up at him, the crown of her hair barely grazing his chin. She looks like she wants to be kissed, and he lowers his head so his forehead brushes hers, their lips mere millimeters away.

“I prefer to think of it as a psychological experiment,” she whispers into his mouth.

*****

He had asked her once why she had bothered to come with him. It wasn’t out of fear, he knew. After the events of that last evening in Baltimore he was less of a threat to her than he ever had been. Bedelia assured him her motivations were purely professional and intellectual in nature. Psychiatry had been her career and that career was ruined. No one would have her now knowing she had had the Chesapeake Ripper on her couch for seven years.

“I don’t relish being used as a tool by the FBI, nor carrion for the likes of Fredericka Lounds,” she had said.

She had also said, “You are my only and final patient.”

Hannibal has wondered at times if Bedelia had been lying to him. There was always the possibility she was playing a long con—for Jack Crawford or the Vergers or even for herself. Her betrayal at this point concerns him less than her abandonment. If she were to leave him now he would not have the resources to pursue her.

He gazes at her in the silvery grey moonlight. He cannot afford to lose her, not after all the others he has lost. Bedelia knows this, holds this trump card close, the ace of spades hidden up her silk sleeve. She is the only teacup left unshattered.

Unshattered yes, but nevertheless there are cracks in the porcelain with Bedelia. And he is the man who put them there. Hannibal must hope she is not fractured beyond repair, for her sake, but for his own.

*****

For the next few days, she makes no overtures toward him. She eats his food, compliments his drawings, joins him at the bench for duets. She does nothing, says nothing, but she hardly has to. He can feel the tension between them, a sultry bolero going round and round, building to a long anticipated crescendo. Or so he hopes.

The final movement of this their song takes him by surprise one afternoon while he is at work at the Capponi library. A messenger arrives with a rectangular parcel wrapped in plain brown paper. “From your wife,” the young man tells him.

Hannibal thanks him and tips the boy generously. There is a small card attached. Hannibal slices the eggshell colored stationary with his favorite brass opener, delighting in the way the thick paper yields before his knife.

 _I’ve made reservations for us tonight at six at Enoteca della Sfinge_.  _I expect you to be wearing my gift when you arrive._

_B_

_P.S- Don’t be late_

Bedelia’s letter causes Hannibal’s pulse to flutter—he’s a schoolgirl before a dance. He hefts the package in his hand. It is compact and dense. Far too heavy to be cufflinks or a new tie. No, it would seem his darling wife has gifted him with some other type of accessory. One he suspects should not be opened in polite company.

The next two hours of the day tick by slowly, so very slowly, his desire ratcheting up higher and higher with each agonizing minute. He goes so far as to shoo the visiting researchers out of the library fifteen minutes early, nearly disgusted with himself at his own rudeness. When the last scholar has at last left for the day, Hannibal sequesters himself in a stall in the men’s washroom and opens Bedela’s gift with thick, trembling fingers.

It is shiny, wine-red silicone, squat and flared at the base for easy removal. Modest as far as such accessories go, but still substantial. His face flushes nearly the same red as the toy. The thought of walking through the streets with this  _inside_ of him, inserting this in himself in a filthy lavatory…at  _work_  no less…the potent blend of humiliation and arousal coursing through his veins right now and  _how could she have known?_

He must comply, give in to the next stage of her “experiment.” Give in or risk losing Bedelia forever. There is only one choice.

Hannibal unbuckles his belt and slides his trousers and boxers down to his ankles. He picks up the small tube of lubricant Bedelia has thoughtfully provided and spreads it over his first two fingers. The toy is too big for him to take all at once. He eases one finger in, moves it gently back and forth, remembering the feeling of Bedelia’s gloved hand inside of him, the way her small fingers filled him. He’s erect at the memory of it. He slides in a second finger, opening himself up, stretching himself, the tip of his cock thrusting forward, aching for contact, any contact. With his free hand he lubes up the plug until it is glossy and wet.

When he feels himself prepared, he takes the toy and sets the narrow point at his entrance. Spreading his cheeks wide, he pushes in, biting down hard on his lip to stifle a groan. He slides it in slowly, feeling himself stretch and widen, more open than he thought possible. In his mind, Bedelia stands behind him, stroking damp locks of his hair, whispering sweet encouragement as he takes centimeter after centimeter of her toy. He does not stop until he feels the flared base flush against his naked skin.

He is tempted, very tempted, to tug the plug back and forth, searching for that pleasurable spot his fingers were too short to reach and that Bedelia had found so easily. But a glance at his watch tells him there is not enough time. It’s nearly 5:30 and he cannot afford to be late, not in the state she has got him in. He also most certainly cannot afford to go walking around in public with such a large erection tenting his trousers. With a sigh, Hannibal smears more lube on his bare palm and begins to stroke himself. He tries desperately to imagine himself anywhere but the stall of the lavatory. He thinks greedily of spreading Bedelia out on the dinner table, filling her to the brim as her toy fills him now, teasing her with slow, agonizing thrusts until she thrashes and weeps for him. His orgasm builds quickly and he comes into a square of his white lawn handkerchief, his hoarse lonely cry echoing throughout the empty washroom.

With alacrity, Hannibal painstakingly puts himself back together again, tucking himself away in his boxers, pulling up his trousers, smoothing down the front of his dress shirt before refastening his belt. He steps outside the stall, the fullness of the plug giving him a pleasurable jolt with each step. He washes his hands, combs back his hair, and straightens his tie. He is presentable enough and none save Bedelia would guess his secret.

A glance at his watch tells him it is nearly quarter to six, he has barely fifteen minutes to join Bedelia at the restaurant or risk her displeasure. Normally it would be but a short walk from the library to the enoteca housed inside the Hotel Gherardesca. But the presence of the plug inside him turns every motion into one of sweet, mortifying pleasure. Hannibal hails a cab rather than be caught walking through the streets of Florence, arousal mounting with each passing step.

He hands the driver a fifty euro bill and does not wait for change. He is there at last, back at the hotel where this all began nearly a month ago. Again, he finds himself crossing the marble lobby toward the restaurant where Bedelia waits, her toy a constant physical reminder of her mastery over him. As he crosses the threshold of the enoteca and asks the maître d’ to escort him to Signora Fell’s table, the silicone plug awakens inside of him with a low buzz, the surprise of it nearly causing him to leap mid-step. Breathing deeply, he composes himself, the vibration increasing as he draws closer to the small banquette. Hannibal shifts his leather briefcase to hide his growing erection, thankful the low hum of the diners covers the noise of what to his ears seems like an obnoxiously loud buzzing.

Bedelia greets him, a secret smile of pleasure drawn across her lips. Her hand, he notices, is tucked in the leather pocketbook on her lap. With a hidden flick of her wrist, the vibration stops, her exquisite torture paused for the moment.

She offers him her cheek to kiss, cool and dry to his own fevered lips. “Are you enjoying my gift, Hannibal?”

Hannibal closes his eyes, counts to ten under his breath in Lithuanian, and drapes a dinner napkin over the obvious erection in his lap. He cannot believe that he is here, that they are doing this. “I would enjoy it more if we were somewhere more private.”

“I’m sure you would,” she says, looking down on his erection with a sly flick of her blonde lashes. “But this is about my pleasure, remember?” Her manicured hand dips into her purse again and the buzzing resumes in short, irregular bursts that leave him shifting awkwardly in his seat.

Hannibal picks up the wine list and can make neither head nor tail of it, it might as well be written in hieroglyphics for all he can comprehend it, so distracted is he by his own arousal.

“Are you very uncomfortable, Hannibal?”

“I should think that would be obvious.”

Her small delicate hand slips beneath the dinner napkin and squeezes his plump cock, forcing him to swallow a moan. “I could help relieve some of your discomfort.”

Feather-light touches on his phallus, too much and somehow not enough at the same time. For a brief moment he contemplates letting her bring him off in this Michelin-starred enoteca, shamefully, publicly, for all those who thought to look. There is a part of him, an increasingly large part of him, that longs to yield to her once and for all. But the core of him, the wild creature beneath the person suit, cannot. “No..no,” he stutters.

“If you insist.” Bedelia snatches her hand away and returns it to her own lap just as the waiter arrives to take their order.

The buzzing inside of him increases now, so much Hannibal can barely keep his seat, much less order the evening’s meal. Hannibal pleads with Bedelia with his eyes and she orders wine and a full five courses for both of them. Hannibal barely registers what she’s said—something about squid ink linguine and quail’s eggs and veal in a cream sauce. He’s never been more disinterested in food in his entire life. The waiter eyes them both with a fishy look and leaves.

“Why don’t you want me to help you?”

“Because,” he gasps, “to perform such an act in public is rude.”

“Ah. I’ve always wondered what happens when Hannibal Lecter commits an act of rudeness.”

“More data,”  _buzz,_ a strangled moan,  _buzz buzz_   “for your psychological experiment.”

“Perhaps.”

The waiter returns with wine and a tray of antipasto. Hannibal picks up a glass of prosecco and swills it like water, while Bedelia looks on at him, amused, he expects, at the usual reversal of their roles.

“Prosciutto melon?” she asks, offering him the tray.

Hannibal shakes his head, trying to focus his attention anywhere except his swollen cock and the sweet, sinful buzzing in his ass. He feels himself flush, sweat drip down his neck into his starched collar, the air conditioning of the restaurant making him feel hot and cold at once, a disoriented mess.

“If you’re not hungry, we could always eat later, I suppose.” Bedelia pops one of the small hors d’oeuvres into her mouth, giving a tiny moan of satisfaction that only further exacerbates his lust. “I took the liberty of booking a suite here at the hotel tonight. It’s a special occasion after all.”

His pulse quickens. He would give anything to be in that suite at this very moment, naked and blissfully alone with her. “Such foresight,” is all he can manage to say.

Bedelia leans over masterfully, majestically, and speaks to him, every word falling from her lips like a royal decree; “Why don’t you tell me what you want…what you need from me. And if you tell me, truthfully, sincerely….well, maybe I’ll give it to you, Hannibal.”

The buzzing has returned to a steady  _andante_. The pleasure it brings him is inescapable, and his soft wool trousers feel like a cage of iron around his cock. He can’t continue on like this, his much vaunted self-control is minutes from crumbling. He fears that there are more settings on Bedelia’s toy and he fears what they will do to him. If he must yield, he will do it privately, gracefully, on his own terms. He thinks for a moment about the words Bedelia most wants to hear. They are not “I love you,” or even “I’m sorry,” though both sentiments are equally true. He thinks about the circular nature of the path she has had him walking, of what she said when they embarked upon this journey a lifetime ago.

Voice shaking, Hannibal says, “I want you…all of you...I  _need_ you. Far more than you will ever need me. You asked once if you could ever affect me as I affect you. Your effect on me is…more powerful than I ever imagined. So, please, take me upstairs now and take me to your bed—no more games, no more masks, just you and I. Please,” he chokes back a sob, tears pooling in his eyes, “Bedelia, please.” He pleads, he  _begs_ , as he has not begged anyone, not since Mischa died.

Bedelia nods at him silently, her sharp eyes soft with pity. “Thank you, Hannibal.” One hand grasps his and squeezes it reassuringly while the other snaps for the waiter. The buzzing in his anus ceases, mercifully, while Bedelia asks their waiter in a light, musical Italian to have their meal sent up to the Medici suite.

Bedelia wipes at his tears with her own cloth napkin and rises from the table, taking him by the hand like a child. He follows her in wordless obedience, again hiding his erection behind his briefcase and shielding his eyes from the stares of the diners. His heart trills in a rapid flourish, threatening to beat out of his chest. Every step from the restaurant to the elevator, from the elevator down the hallway to their suite is one of sweet silent agony. Hannibal thinks he would lose himself entirely were she not there to guide him.

“Almost there,” she says, offering him a tender kiss on the cheek when they are alone together in the hotel’s historic brass elevator.

When they finally reach their suite, the scrape of Bedelia’s plastic room key against the lock is sweeter to him than an aria, the lock’s light flashing from red to green more glorious than an entire floor of the Uffizi.

The carpets are deep and soft, the décor lush and opulent, with damask flocked wall paper and restored 16th century frescoes. It is a suite fit for a queen and her consort, though at the moment, Hannibal would gladly tryst with Bedelia in a broom closet as long he could finally feel the touch of her naked skin against his own.

She tosses aside her coat and handbag, and following suit he doffs his sport coat and briefcase. He pads behind her into the bedroom, with its king-sized flotilla of a bed, strewn with a small armada of pillows and bolsters in silk, satin, and velvet. He stands in the middle of the room, awaiting further instruction. He is afraid to move, afraid she will snap her fingers and it will all end, the enchantment broken.

Silently, but watchfully, Bedelia begins to undress him. She begins with his silk tie, fingers deftly undoing the full Windsor, taking time to fold it and set it aside as he would have himself done. Her small hands trace his shoulders, roam enticingly over his dress shirt, undoing the buttons one by one. Her right hand rests on his belt buckle and her touch sears through him like a brand, his cock all but leaping to attention at her mere presence. Unbuckled and unzipped, she slides his trousers then his dress shirt to the floor. They land on the deep pile emerald carpet with naught but a whisper.

He’s in his boxers now, and she’s still fully dressed. His arousal is unmistakable, hers hidden away, harder to discern. “Has it been very painful, all this waiting?” she asks, her voice pouring down on him like honey.

“Yes,” he says with a solemn nod.

Her fingers hook under his waistband and peel the silk from him inch by inch, sharp nails running over his naked buttocks deliciously, until at last he is sprung free, cock bobbing hard and proud in the air. He is naked, physically and emotionally, his person suit discarded somewhere along with the rest of his clothes. He feels soft and vulnerable without it, like an oyster without its shell, yet oddly liberated and light, too. It had been heavier than he had ever realized.

“You’ve been surprisingly game about all of this.” Bedelia’s eyes flick up and hold his gaze, hard. Her nails reach in to the crevice of his ass. “But I think I’ve teased you enough for one day.”

She’s teased him enough for several lifetimes. She gives the toy one last playful tug and slides it out. He moans, suddenly empty.

Bedelia sits on the bed, appraising him. She doesn’t ask for him to help her undress, merely slides off her shoes and stockings, unfastens her skirt, unbuttons her blouse. It is too businesslike to be a striptease, yet it is still indisputably erotic, and he can tell by the haste with which she undresses that she too is eager for this the final act.

Perched on the edge of the bed, still in her silk navy bra and matching underwear, she pats the space beside her. “Come here, Hannibal,” she says.

He goes to her, and she spreads her arms wide to welcome him in. He skims the smooth, graceful cello curve of her back, runs his fingers through her long blonde curls, the intimate, gentle caresses she had so long forbidden him. She is a marvel. Gently, she tilts her head and presses her lips to his, kissing him very slowly, very sweetly. He lets her take the lead, lets her force open his mouth and press her tongue inside to meet his. Her hands tangle in his hair, her full, creamy breasts threaten to spill out of their cups onto his bare chest. She breaks the kiss off roughly, and he nearly snarls, frustrated like his entrée has been snatched away in the middle of dinner.

Bedelia looks at him, eyes twilight dark, and guides his hand to her sex. He can feel the heat of her, the wetness through the thin barrier of silk. He teases her, strokes her through the damp fabric, one, two, three strokes, before pushing aside her underwear and plunging his fingers deep into her damp folds. She’s soaking, wetter for him than he can ever recall her or any other woman being. Bedelia moans audibly as he thrusts two fingers into her sex. “It’s been a long wait for me, too,” she says, voice husky with want.

Her hand stills his wrist, and she looks at him lazily, sloe-eyed. “Lie back,” she says and he eagerly complies. Bedelia removes her underwear and straddles his prone form. She’s petite, but toned, well-muscled despite her diminutive stature. Languorously, tortuously, she slides against the too sensitive head of his cock, her wetness dripping against his own hardness. Her hands grip his chest hair and tweak his nipples, and he’s in anguish until she takes him in hand and positions herself on top of him.

She takes just the tip of him at first, teasingly, and he moans, “Bedelia, please…”

She smiles at him and rolls her hips forward, swallowing the whole length of him inside her in one fluid motion. Her eyes spring wide for a second in pleasurable pain, surprised at the way he fills her. He knows he is larger than average, and now Bedelia knows, too. Slowly she moves astride him, hands on his chest, as she finds the rhythm she wants. He is penetrating her, but there is no doubt in Hannibal’s mind that she is fucking him. She is the maestro, he is merely the instrument. He’s never felt so wantonly used, so utterly out of control. Hannibal’s face flushes, embarrassed at how much he likes it.

She’s quickened her pace, and he grasps her bare thighs as she rides him, fighting to hold off as long as he can. He must not disappoint her, must not finish before she finds her pleasure. Her platinum curls tumble over her shoulder, she plants a hand on his chest, and she is marble made flesh.

“I need to see you, touch you. All of you. Will you let me?” he asks.

Bedelia pauses and grasps him by the hand, pulling him up into a sitting position. She is astride his lap, they are so close now that they are breathing the same breath. She brings his hand to the front clasp of her bra, he unhooks it with his thumb and she shrugs it off her shoulders, revealing two ample, rounded breasts. “Is this what you wanted?”

“Yes,” he gasps. Her breasts are full and firm, almost overripe on her small frame, the nipples the color of pale poppies. He cups them in his hands, skin silken soft, and runs his tongue slavishly over her right breast while his fingers tease arpeggios over her left. Her flesh tastes faintly of almonds, cyanide-bitter and marzipan-sweet. As he scrapes her nipples with his teeth, he is rewarded by the sight of Bedelia’s lips parting in a wide silent O of pure bliss.

She shifts forward, quickening the pace, and draws him closer. Hannibal buries his head between her breasts, and rains kisses down upon each one, licking and sucking eagerly, almost to the point of pain. She fucks him with force, rides him hard, an equestrienne on her prize thoroughbred, and he rises up to meet every thrust. Her walls clench and ripple around him, slick and molten. With her nails digging into his shoulders and his teeth tight around her nipple, she comes with a high, loud cry. Hannibal brushes his thumb against her swollen clitoris, watches greedily as wave after wave of orgasm ravishes Bedelia.

Gazing down upon him, high with pleasure, she nods at him and he spends at her most gentle command, moaning into the valley of her breasts. She knows him, sees him, in that moment, as raw and as vulnerable as he has ever been. It is an understanding he had found only once before, lost, and never expected to see again.

*****

Hours later, he is lying beside Bedelia in the suite’s opulent bed as she feeds him cardamom chocolate mousse from a spoon, smirk affixed firmly on her face. A small drop of rich mousse lands on the curve of her right breast and he bends down to lick at it eagerly, nosing his way into her bathrobe until he finds her nipple. He teases it with his tongue, until Bedelia swats at him playfully and he stops.

They gaze at each other, Bedelia’s eyes sapphire bright with amusement, smile lines around her mouth. He’s never seen her so happy before and the sight of it swells his lonely, battered heart. It was a funny thing with Bedelia, to be welcomed beyond the walls she had so long hidden behind, walls he now knew to be higher and even more impenetrable than his own. He had spent so many years laying siege to her, trying to make them crumble or smoke her out. But Bedelia’s walls had proven unassailable—the only thing to be done was to knock politely, persistently, and wait to be invited inside. Only in losing did he finally win her, he had to surrender in order to achieve victory.

She tucks a finger underneath his chin and lifts it. “What are you thinking of, Hannibal?”

He shakes his head, slightly sheepish. “A very old, very bad joke.”

“I wasn’t aware you knew any jokes.”

He sidles up beside her, all the better to drink in her radiance, and takes her ringed hand in his own. Though they have been “married” for months, they both know this is their true wedding night. “How do two porcupines make love?”

Bedelia raises her brows and shrugs.

“Very carefully,” Hannibal says, giving her hand an affectionate squeeze.

To his surprise, Bedelia laughs, not a throaty chuckle but a girlish giggle. It’s utterly adorable, a price beyond rubies. “I see I’ve finally made you laugh,” he says.

“It’s only taken you eight years.”

Hannibal turns toward her, presses his naked length against her own, and impishly begins to nuzzle her neck. “Are you satisfied with the results of your experiment, Dr. Du Maurier?”

She gasps a little as his lips and tongue graze her collarbone. “Beyond my wildest expectations,” she all but purrs. Her fingers rake through his hair, tugging it back, forcing him to look at her in the eye. “But the experiment bears repeating, don’t you agree?”

Hannibal slinks beneath the sheets, buries his head between Bedelia’s thighs, and gets to work on replicating their results.

* * *

 

**Epilogue**

 

“Dottore Fell, are you sure you cannot stay another hour to finish accessioning the Mazarini collection?”

“Signore, I would be happy to come in early and finish them tomorrow morning. Tonight I have a pressing engagement.”

“But,  _dottore…”_

“I am supposed to have dinner with my wife. And one does not keep a beautiful woman waiting,” Hannibal tells the dour curator as he sweeps out the door. “Ciao.”

Hannibal forsakes the darkness of the Palazzo Capponi for the late afternoon Tuscan sun. He spies Bedelia waiting for him across the sunlit piazza, glowing in a dress of daffodil yellow. He offers her his arm, and she takes it, and they stroll together along the banks of the Arno back to their flat. Bedelia chats animatedly about a lecture she attended at the university that morning. Hannibal mentions that he has been asked to give a talk in Sienna next month and suggests they make a romantic holiday of it, to which Bedelia readily agrees. Numerous men try to catch Bedelia’s eye, but she doesn’t return any of their gazes, doesn’t so much as deign to notice them. Her eyes, her smile, are for him and him alone. And if certain tourists jostle them or rudely clog the streets, Hannibal swats away their annoyance like one would a gnat or a fly, his appetite no longer as insatiable as it once was.

It is springtime in Florence and the long winter of their hearts has finally ended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The inspiration for Bedelia and Hannibal's suite is the Four Seasons in Florence, which is actually a renovated Renaissance convent and palazzo. Bedannibal are probably too snobby for even the Four Seasons, but they have some lovely photos on their website and really, really know how to make a suite look fancy enough to suit Hannibal's tastes.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr as bedannibal-lectaurier, where I fangirl Bedelia shamelessly and occasionally take prompts and requests.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [SATISFACTION](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3187790) by [xEatxThexRudex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xEatxThexRudex/pseuds/xEatxThexRudex)




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